


Christmas Got Me Blue

by battybatzgirl



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Drunk Spock (Star Trek), F/M, Getting Together, Humor, Jealous Spock (Star Trek), Jim blushes so much in this he's a literal schoolgirl i swear, Jim is so awkward, K/S Advent Calendar, Love Confessions, M/M, Mistletoe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Still Continuing Even Though It's Not December, YES THAT'S RIGHT THIS IS AN ADVENT FIC, fight me, it's 2020, literally what am I doing, oblivious idiots, we need some holiday cheer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/battybatzgirl/pseuds/battybatzgirl
Summary: 'Tis the season for telling your stuck up coworker that you're madly in love with him. If only Jim wasn't so much of a Scrooge.(a.k.a, 2020 Advent Christmas prompt fills with a somewhat cohesive plot.)
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy, James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 16
Kudos: 50





	1. 'Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

> * breaks down your door in a Santa hat and ugly sweater * GUESS WHO'S BACK ON A TREK BENDER, THAT'S RIGHT IT'S ME. It's been years since I've done anything with my two favorite boys, and since it's Christmas I thought it would be the perfect time to jump back in. I haven't written a dorky fic like this in so long, so please, give me grace. Lots of Christmas fluff and dubious plot threads ahead.
> 
> (And yes, the title is taken from a Meghan Trainor song.)

It was that time of year again. They were in deep space, it was almost mid-December back on earth, and Joanna would be celebrating Christmas without him.

Again.

He knocks back the rest of his glass of the Andorian whiskey and sets it down on the bar with a thump. It was only seconds before Jim refills it.

“Don’t even know why I’m upset,” McCoy mutters, looking deep into the glass. He’s just tipsy enough that its green contents swirl a little in his vision. Thank whatever space god was near that appearances didn’t matter. They were the only two in the lounge—probably because it was nearing close to 3 a.m., and most responsible officers knew they had duties tomorrow. They weren’t sulking and reminiscing about their old lives. “She’s too old now for me to dress up and play Santa. Has been for a few years.”

“You can do it for the ship,” Jim suggests. “I can think of a few ensigns that are itching to sit on your lap.”

McCoy snorts. “That’d make for a memorable Christmas party.”

“Seasonal celebration,” Jim corrects, slurring a little and dragging his S’s. He didn’t have to be asked twice about rolling out of bed for a late-night drink. Even though he insisted it _wasn’t_ a pity drink, contrary to what McCoy said. The kid has a good heart.

Jim continues, “Not all beings celebrate Christmas on the ship—some don’t even have winter on their planets. Can you imagine? No snow.” He shakes his head, as if the concept is too unfathomable for his Midwestern brain.

“Aw, come on now. A few carefully placed pieces of mistletoe and I bet you could convince a few desert dwellers to get into the spirit.”

Jim shoots him a pointed glare. His barely concealed smitten attitude with a certain Vulcan has been getting more obnoxious than usual. It’s probably because of the approaching holidays. Even if Starfleet doesn’t officially celebrate Christmas, humans still get caught up in the feelings of the season.

McCoy pretends not to notice, taking another sip. It burns all the way down, but warms him up on the inside. Against his better judgment, it makes him think of other times this season when he was warm, with Joyce and JoJo, in the early years. Back when everything was _happy_ and _warm_ and _good_.

His eyes slid over to his friend. Maybe he was just getting soft, maybe the liquor combined with his melancholy attitude was a bad mix. Or, more accurately, it's been goddamn years and he's just so _done_ with the Will-They-Won't-They bullshit.

‘Tis the season, after all.

He clasps a hand on his captain’s shoulder. “You know what, Jim? Because I’m feeling extra festive, I’ll give you your Christmas present early.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Jim’s lips. “Ooooh, does this mean I get out of hypos for a year?”

McCoy snorts. “You wish, kid. Guess again. I’ll give you a hint: unless you follow it through, you’ll have bad luck for the whole new year.”

Jim’s eyebrows raise. “One of your famous ultimatums?”

Ultimatums were something his mother always gave him to make sure he followed through on his goals for the new year. McCoy started giving them to Jim when they were back at the academy. They couldn’t _really_ grant bad luck, but his friend was somehow convinced that southern superstition was nothing to be trifled with.

McCoy nods solemnly. “That’s it. May they live in infamy.” He reaches forward and grabs Jim’s face in between his two hands. The kid’s cheeks are squished between his fingers, his lips mushed in an awkward little pout.

“Here it goes: you must tell Spock about your feelings before Christmas.”

Jim’s face slowly contorts into one of horror, which nearly makes him snort because his cheeks are still smushed. “ _What_?”

“I’m serious, Jim.” The kid pulls out of the facial hold, still looking horrified. “It’s been four fucking years. Four years of pure agony for me. Either you tell the hobgoblin how you feel or I will.”

McCoy is half expecting Jim to call him on his bluff (because he’d honestly _never_ get in the middle of whatever the fuck those two had going on emotionally). Instead, the captain’s shoulders sag and he thumps his head down on the bar.

“I _can’t_ ,” Jim whines.

“Sure you can.”

“No,” he insists, rolling his head so he’s facing McCoy. “You don’t understand. What I feel…it’s complicated.”

“Ain’t it just.”

Jim shakes his head and mutters glumly, “I’m not destined for it.”

McCoy raises an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s crazy enough for me to bite. _What_?”

“When I melded with the other Spock—the one from the other timeline. I _felt_ what he had with his Jim. I could see their relationship. It was pure and wholesome. They complimented each other perfectly, like two halves of the same coin. I—I used to think that I could get that too with my Spock, so I waited for it to happen, but…”

“Nothing yet?” McCoy guesses.

“Which means it’s probably not destined in this timeline. Which is _fine_ ,” Jim says, which McCoy knows really means it’s not. This isn’t the first time he’s brought up the unfairness of their reality involving his love life. It probably won’t be the last. “But it’s just awkward because I have these feelings and he doesn’t.”

“What the hell makes you think that?”

Jim sits up straight and looks at him in confusion. McCoy carries on, “Jim, you caught a snippet of what his older counterpart felt. You have no idea how long it took the other versions of you to get together. You also don’t know what this version of Spock is feeling because you haven’t _told him you love him_. Some spacy fairy isn’t going to magically appear and poof you two into a longstanding committed relationship. You gotta build up to that shit.”

A flush that has nothing to do with the alcohol rises to Jim’s face. “I never said anything about the L-word.”

If McCoy could roll his eyes any harder, he’d see the inside of his brain. “Wouldn’t you rather know either way instead of living in this purgatory?”

“I feel pretty cozy here in purgatory.”

“Two weeks,” McCoy stresses. For added effect, he points a finger between Jim’s eyes. “Fourteen days ‘till Christmas. You have plenty of time.”

“That’s only three hundred and thirty-six hours,” Jim warbles. “It’s not enough.”

McCoy can’t help but be slightly impressed at Jim’s brain, being able to calculate that even tipsy. “Plenty of time. Christmastime is perfect for telling the person you’ve got it bad for that you can’t live without them in multiple realities.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”


	2. Mistletoe

Bringing new planets to be part of the federation had its ups and downs. Sometimes, there were weeks of planetside civil bickering over the fine print of the treaty. Sometimes, the crew was shot down before they could even land to discuss peaceful negotiations.

But sometimes, once in a blue moon, treaties were signed smoothly. And, if Jim got really lucky, the planet’s inhabitance were so thrilled that they threw a party in commemoration of their new alliance.

After spending just one week on Varos II, the queen had been thrilled to sign her planet’s allegiance with the Federation. She insisted that such a momentous moment in their history must be celebrated, and invited the entire crew to a feast in her palace.

As Jim finds out, _feast_ is apparently the Varonian was a synonym for _party_. As soon as they beam down to meet with the queen in front of the huge stone palace, they’re given crowns made out of bioluminescent flowers and fizzy pink drinks that taste like rosewater. Sulu immediately geeks out about the flowers, Scotty discovers that the drinks are _very_ alcoholic, and Chekov is mobbed by three Varonians who are fascinated with the curls of his hair.

And it’s just so damn nice to be greeted with warm smiles as opposed to something sharp getting pointed in his face that Jim nearly cries.

He does what he always does at mixers such as these: mingles while carefully balancing the line of being charming while staying professional. After a few hours though, Jim finds himself quietly exiting his conversation with the queen and looking for a more familiar face.

It's no surprise that he can’t find Spock in the crowd of the party. Jim has never known his First to be an extrovert. As he walks by the open patio, he spots a figure out in the gardens, he knows instantly it's got to be Spock. After all, with the green light given to fully explore this planet and its inhabitance, what scientist wouldn’t be taking advantage of this and gathering as much new data to study as possible?

Jim thinks it’s adorable. 

God, he’s _so_ screwed.

“Had a feeling I’d find you out here.” Spock is scanning a bush with bright green leaves when Jim walks over. “Not a fan of parties?”

Spock doesn’t look at him, his attention still on the scanner. “I felt a more constructive use of my time would be to catalog as many new flora samples as possible before we retire to the ship.”

Jim leans against one of the garden’s stone arches, taking in the wide variety of bioluminescent flowers around them. Vines were wound around nearly every archway. Jim thought it gave the garden a vibe that was elegant yet somehow slightly reminiscent of Vegas. “Your curiosity will get the better of you eventually, Commander. Haven’t you ever heard what happened to the cat?”

Spock shoots him a Look out of the corner of his eye. Jim’s gotten to cataloging them; this one means he’s annoyed by being the butt of the proverb. “The feline you are referring to is completely theoretical.”

“And unless my history lessons were wrong, Vulcans evolved from felines.” The full glare that Jim gets on that one makes him grin. “Oh come on, Spock. Even computers like you need to relax once and a while. Doesn’t it feel good to have negotiations go right on the first try? This _never_ happens.”

“Treaties with new planets do often require much more negotiations,” Spock admits. “That shows the Federation has a much wider positive influence than previously thought.”

“I’m just happy no one pointed a weapon at me.”

A loud burst of laughter rises out of the palace’s windows, stealing Jim’s attention for a minute. When he turns back to Spock, the Vulcan is scanning a new plant. Just by looking at his posture, Jim can tell he’s brimming with childlike excitement. 

An absurdly fond feeling rises in Jim’s chest. “I’m not going to be able to convince you to go inside with me, am I?”

“No,” Spock answers shortly, not even pretending to think twice.

Jim sighs, but feels what was probably a smitten grin tug at his lips. Thank God Spock wasn’t paying attention to him. “Alright, fine. I bet Sulu will be over the moon.” He turns to leave, but stops when he notices a familiar spring of leaves with bright white berries. The plant is wound around one of the stone archways, stretching in bushels over their heads. “Hey, have you scanned this one yet?”

Spock abandons whatever he was scanning to stand next to Jim. “I have not.”

“Huh. Looks kind of like…” Jim tilts his head. What he wants to say is that it looks a hell of a lot like _mistletoe_. It might be close to Christmas, but they were so far away from Earth, there’s no way the plant could have traveled through space to be here in this specific alien garden... Unless the universe just wants to taunt him. 

Not ruling out the possibility, Jim presses his lips tightly together. He doesn’t even want to say the word.

Spock is still looking at him patiently, waiting for him to finish his thought. “Yes, Captain?”

“Uh, nevermind. It was nothing.” Jim takes a big step back to get out from under the stone arch. The distance between him and Spock is painfully obvious now, and the Vulcan raises an eyebrow. Heat rises to Jim’s face.

“I was just going to say it looked like mistletoe,” he explains hurriedly. “Which is silly, because there’s _no way_ mistletoe ended up on this planet.”

Spock tilts his head in that way he does when he’s trying to piece together what's going on inside Jim's brain. “I assume mistletoe is an Earth-native species with cultural significance?”

Jim’s mouth feels dry. “You don’t know what mistletoe is? It’s a—a bit of a Christmas tradition. Didn’t your mother celebrate Christmas?”

A softness crosses Spock’s face like it always does at the mention of his mother. “Vulcans do not celebrate during the winter season, but my mother did celebrate Hanukkah. However, I do not recall it involving a species of plant. Would you enlighten me?”

 _Of fucking course_. This would be his luck, with Bones and his damn ultimatum. Jim briefly considers turning and running back into the party, but that would make their next dual shift super awkward. But damn, wouldn't this be the perfect opportunity to actually tell Spock how he feels? They were alone in a luscious garden, and the luminescent plants made Spock's pale skin look like it was glowing. He makes himself take a breath to calm his suddenly racing heart.

“It’s a Christmas tradition,” Jim explains, shifting forward a little. If he took two more steps, he'd be close enough to Spock to kiss him. “If you and someone else both end up underneath mistletoe, that means you...you have to kiss.”

“ _Have_ to kiss? Does the plant release pheromones to entice your sexuality?”

Jim laughs, the sound coming out too breathy thanks to his anxiety. “No, nothing involving pheromones. It's a social construct. Meant for fun. If you and your crush end up underneath it at a party, it gets memorable real quick.”

“Crush, Captain?”

And the universe just keeps digging him deeper, doesn’t it? “It’s a term for someone you’re romantically interested in.”

Spock frowns. “I fail to see how physically harming the being you wish to bond with is romantic.”

“No, you don’t actually—a crush is someone you want to date, not hurt. Unless you were into getting hurt, then that's fine if it's consensual. Not that I mean _you,_ I mean whoever I have a crush on, which obviously isn't you. Not that I _wouldn't_ have a crush on you, you're very—" Jim can barely hear what he's saying because of the blood rushing in his ears. He's not sure if he even _wants_ to hear what he's saying. There's no way he's not blushing.

"You know what, nevermind. I’ll explain it to you when we’re not—” _Not standing in a romantic alien garden underneath a bunch of mistletoe,_ his brain finishes. Spock's got a twinkle in his eye now, clearly amused by all the stuttering, and Jim's stomach flips. _Real smooth, Kirk. You're totally the one in control of this situation._ Jim flounders for a moment, his mouth working before he finally lands on, “Here.”

He...can't do this. Any kind of Kirk charisma just melts out of his ears whenever Spock is around. The Vulcan is ruining him and he doesn't even know it. Swallowing hard, Jim hooks his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m, uh, going back inside.”

Nerves shattered, the Captain takes whatever’s left of his dignity and avoids Spock and the gardens for the rest of the night.

//

As Jim boards the turbolift for his shift the next morning, he notices something that makes his stomach drop.

Mistletoe. Hanging just above the entrance of the lift, quietly waiting to spring it's madness on the next two victims to enter onto the lift at the same time.

Jim tears it down. But, he quickly finds, the plant wasn’t just in the lift—it was all over the ship. In Engineering, the recreation rooms, the gym. In practically every doorway, there was a bundle of it.

 _It’s the ultimatum_ , he thinks, horrified that the drunken deal he’d made with Bones is coming back to haunt him. He refused to tell Spock how he felt last night in the gardens, even though he had a good opportunity. Anxiety bubbles in his stomach. He had to put a stop to this.

Jim drops the bottle off at Scotty’s station, then considers grabbing a step ladder to tear the mistletoe down. The problem is there’s literally _so much_ of it.

Either someone smuggled all of it from Varos II, or a lab tech has been secretly growing it for weeks in the botany lab. Either way, Jim’s pissed, because if there is a rise in sexual harassment cases this month, he does _not_ want that to reflect on his permanent record.

Deciding he can be a little late to his shift, Jim takes a detour down to the labs. He’s halfway to the botany room when something catches his eye in the bio lab. A certain Vulcan is examining something at his desk, no doubt the data he discovered last night. He looks up when Jim enters, standing in surprise.

“Captain? Are you not due on the bridge in seven-point-three minutes?”

“We have a bigger problem.” Jim points up to the ceiling, where (of course) five bundles of mistletoe have somehow fixated themselves around the lab. “Someone put mistletoe all over the ship. Either it got smuggled on board last night or Sulu’s trying to get me fired.”

“Ah,” Spock says, and for a second he looks almost guilty.

Jim crosses his arms. “Spock, if you’re about to tell me that you took robbed the gardens last night—”

The Vulcan shakes his head. “The plants were cloned and created on the ship, not brought in from an outside source. Because the construction of the plant is manufactured, rest assured there is no unidentified genetic threat to the crew.”

“And how would you know that, Commander?”

Oh yeah, Spock _definitely_ looks guilty now. “After we spoke last night, I took the time to research mistletoe further. Deeming it necessary, I cloned the molecular structure in the replication and adorned the plant around the lab in areas I felt would hold the best results. I realize now that any yeoman who entered the workstation would have been able to access the data the system, which I suspect is why the plant has is being displayed shipwide.”

It takes a second for that sentence to process through Jim’s head. And even when it does, it still doesn’t make sense. “Spock, why the hell did you deem cloning mistletoe necessary?”

“Your human social traditions intrigued me.”

Jim’s stomach drops and for a heart-pounding second, he thinks Spock is going to ask him to pick up where they left off last night and participate in one. Panic shoots through him, and the emotion must reflect on his face because Spock’s eyes widen.

“Allow me to explain. Two of my lab technicians, officers Wilson and Miller, have been romantically interested in each other for three months. Whenever they have overlapping shifts, they tend to be distracted by one another. Wilson has misfiled the last seven of my reports despite my consistent reprimanding.” Jim catches a flash of annoyance in the Vulcan’s eyes. “I am tired of having to take the time out of my shifts to search for files that should be easily accessible. I am hoping that the mistletoe will induce enough social pressure for them to, as you would say, _get a room_.”

Jim can’t help it—he busts out laughing. “You’re playing matchmaker with your lab techs?”

“Hardly,” Spock says, but there’s a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. “I simply want my lab to go back to running efficiently.”

“Well, I think it’s sweet that you care.” Jim can’t stop grinning, clasping his hand to Spock’s shoulder. He squeezes once before trailing his hand down Spock’s arm, freezing once realizing what he was doing. Damn, had Spock’s biceps always felt this incredible?

“Captain,” Spock murmurs. His voice is soft timber that makes goosebumps break out all over Jim’s skin. Jim glances up and his mouth goes dry. The warmth in the Vulcan’s eyes was still there, and—was Spock standing this close before? “We have not finished our discussion from last night. Has mistletoe ever enticed you to kiss someone?”

Jim’s brain goes offline for a second. He can feel the heat radiating off Spock from where he’s still got a grip on his forearm. He tells his fingers that they should probably let go, but they don't for some reason. Little traitors. 

“Uh,” he says, desperately trying to think of words that won’t make him sound like a five-year-old. “Yeah. I—I’ve kissed someone under the mistletoe before.”

“Fascinating.” Spock’s dark eyes flicker once across Jim’s face. “Do you foresee yourself repeating that outcome?”

It’s as if the atmosphere has left the room. Jim can’t breathe. What the hell is he supposed to say to _that_? Does this mean Spock wants to kiss him? Or is he trying to pick Jim’s human brain to see if his mistletoe plan will work? Confusion knots in his stomach. The last thing he wants is to make the wrong assumption, but if Spock was implying what Jim thinks he is…

The chirp of his communicator hits his nerves like a strike of lightning. Jim leaps back, finally ripping his hand off Spock’s arm as he fumbles for it. “ _Sulu to Kirk_.”

Jim looks everywhere but Spock as he flips the device open. “Kirk here.”

“ _Sir, you’re fifteen minutes late for your shift. Is everything okay?”_

Oh, right. He had actual work to do. “Agh, sorry Sulu, I got distracted in the labs. I’m on my way up.” He flips the communicator closed and turns back to Spock with a shrug. “Duty calls. I’ll uh, see you later?” He doesn’t wait for the Vulcan to respond, turning and striding out into the hall.

It isn’t until he’s safely locked behind the lift doors does he realize that Spock was _totally_ checking out his lips.

And the reason he shows up to the bridge red-faced is because he _had an allergic reaction to an experiment going on in the labs, Mister Sulu, I am not blushing_.


	3. Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why YES, it is January and I'm still writing a Christmas fic. Can we still pretend it's December?

Spock has a headache. It has persisted for four point five hours, and unfortunately, he does not think it will go away soon. While he did have the option to go to Medbay for a hypo, going into Medbay meant he had to walk past the troupe of recently rescued Orion captives, most of who were still recovering from injuries from their time in onboard an illegal trafficking ship. Their rescue mission had been a success, a fact of which Spock was grateful for. 

It was their leader, D’Ray, who he had an issue with. Namely, D’Ray’s overpowering pheromones, which had been consistently directed at the Captain.

“I simply cannot thank you both enough,” she had said, the heat of her pouring off her in waves. It was so heady, it made his temples pound in response. “Please, let me know there’s anything I can do in return.”

“Just doing our jobs, Ma’am,” Jim had assured her. His face was carefully neutral, but the tips of his ears were bright red. “We’ll be landing at the closest Starfleet base in a few hours, and then you and your girls will be escorted on a Starfleet vessel straight back home.”

Then, he flashed a brilliant Kirk smile, one that could charm even the most disagreeable of Admirals. Spock almost gagged on the responding hormones.

Despite being half-human, his Vulcan half kept him immune to Orion pheromones. Jim, however, was fully human, and therefore could not be blamed for his biological weakness against such romantic advances.

But it didn’t help that Jim was flirting back.

Nyota had caught him grinding his teeth in the turbolift. “If seeing Jim flirt in front of you is bothering you so much, why don’t you tell him?”

Such a response should have been expected. She had been urging him to “come clean” to Jim about the way he felt for months. “The Captain can have romantic relations with whoever he pleases, Lieutenant. It is not my place to speak on such a personal matter.”

Nyota fixed him with a flat look. “Right. Too personal. Sorry, _Commander_.”

Spock had ignored the obvious sarcasm. “I have decided to remove myself from the situation and continue my reports from my quarters to avoid further confrontation.” He raised a hand to rub at his temples. “Though I do admit, the whole ordeal has left me feeling quite nauseous. I am finding it difficult to concentrate.”

“Tell me about it.” Nyota rolled her eyes. “I had an Orion roommate at the academy. Whenever she brought a guy over, I would have headaches for days after.” She paused then, considering something. “You know, when we dock at the base, a few crew members are talking about spending the night out. You could take your work and find a small bar to finish up your reports. It would probably be easier for you to concentrate in a corner pub or coffee shop than in a stinky ship.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the most logical approach, but Spock felt the pounding at his temples omitted any logic for the time being. When the Enterprise docked, he quietly exited and found a quiet bar a few blocks away from the docking stations. The lighting was low, and they had a wide variety of drink selections which spanned from hard Ferengi liquors to Vulcan teas. A knot unwound from between his shoulder blades as he entered.

But now, even as he sits in the corner booth he’s claimed with his green tea, he’s having more trouble than ever concentrating. He was certain that the Orions had been safely deposited on the base, but had Jim stayed on the ship, or had he personally seen to D’Ray? No matter how many times he inhaled the supposedly calming scent of his tea, a hot barb of jealousy lodged itself in his sternum.

No, not jealousy, Spock told himself. He wouldn’t let himself call it that. It was probably just acid reflex from the residual pheromones. Either way, it made the report on his PADD ten times harder to focus on.

“Hey.”

Spock looks up to see a human in a collared shirt slide into the seat across from him in the booth. The man had bright red hair and a disarming smile. “Could you use some company? I’d be happy to join you.”

Years of Vulcan training barely stops Spock from rolling his eyes. “I am faring perfectly adequately by myself, thank you. Please vacate my booth.”

The man’s smile doesn’t falter as he nods to the PADD. “You look like you’re going to break that thing in half. Rough day on your ship?”

His control must be slipping, as his response comes out much sharper than he indented. “In what universe does my wellbeing pertain to you?”

The man holds up both his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Apparently it was a rougher day than I thought.” He chuckles a little, then fixes Spock with a playful smirk that probably would have made any other recipient swoon on the spot. What a fool—this man clearly didn’t have to deal with the magnanimous James Kirk on a daily basis.

“My name’s Owen.”

“Hello Owen,” Spock greets. “It would be in your best interest to leave my table.”

Instead of having the effect that he wants, Owen has the nerve to laugh again. “Damn, you’re sassy for a Vulcan. I’m here for it.” Spock wants to reiterate that he doesn’t want Owen here for anything but before he can, the man is rising from the chair. “Why don’t I get you a drink?”

“I already have a well-suitable beverage.”

“I meant something that’s a little bit more—ah, relaxing.”

As Owen heads for the bar, Spock considers the merit of grabbing his satchel and leaving. Clearly, this human has no intention of letting him sit alone, which proves to make his headache pound even harder. He had enough of one human, but barely got a word in edgewise with another. It’s hardly fair.

Owen returns and places a tall mug of a dark liquid in front of him. A sweet aroma rise from the mug, and Spock can’t help his naturally curious side taking over. He wraps a hand around the mug and brings it to his nose, surprised when he recognizes the scent.

“To help you loosen up,” the redhead says, eyeing him hungrily. Spock nearly rolls his eyes. He normally would not engage with a human who so blatantly wanted a sexual encounter, nor would he accept a drink from a stranger outside of a diplomatic mission, but if there was a sliver of a chance this would make his headache go away, he’d take it.

He brings the drink to his lips. The chocolate is thick in his mouth, and when he swallows it warms him from head to toe.

“Thank you,” Spock says genuinely, already feeling the pounding at his temples receding.

Owen shoots him another charming smile, clearly pleased with himself. He had a small gap between his two front teeth. It could be considered attractive, Spock thinks, if one was looking for that.

“So, what was so rough, huh? Lovers spat?”

It’s so surprising that Spock almost spits out his next sip. He chokes down the liquid and coughs once. “Hardly.”

Owen tilts his head. His hands are resting on the table. His hands are long and thin—different than Jim’s broad palms. They’re easily within reach to hold. Spock keeps the hand that isn’t wrapped around the mug firmly in a fist on his knee. “You just don’t look like the type of guy who would show up to a bar alone.”

“Who said he’s alone?”

Spock looks up to see a certain blonde standing over Owen’s shoulder. Jim shoots him an easy going grin and says, “Sorry I kept you waiting, honey. Paperwork kept me busy longer than I expected.” This time, Spock does roll his eyes. He would never understand his Captain’s weakness for theatric entrances. “Sorry, was I interrupting something?”

Owen shoots a confused glance between the two of them, slowly sliding out of the booth. “Uh, nope! Sorry, I thought your friend was someone else.”

Jim claps a friendly hand on Owen’s shoulder as he slides into the previously unoccupied seat. “No worries, man! I hope you find your friend!” His tone is cheerful, but it would take a fool to miss the obvious sharpness underneath.

As soon as Owen heads back to the bar, Jim rounds on him. “Spock, what the hell? Since when do you go out for one night stands?”

“I was attempting to find a peaceful place to work away from the ship.” He gestures to the PADD in front of him. The fading scent of D’Ray still clings to Jim’s clothing. Spock wrinkles his nose and brings the hot chocolate back to his lips, taking a long, steady drink. The natural sugars are starting to make him feel lighter, and deliciously warm.

“Yeah, sure looks like you’re working hard.” Jim eyes the mug in his hand. Unhelpfully, Spock notices how in this pub’s lighting, the Captain’s eyes look like little pools of liquid sapphires. “Is that hot coco? Since when you let strangers buy you alcohol?”

“Since I wanted to.”

“Uh huh. And will drinking on a work night become a regular occurrence? I can have Bones set up a weekly hypo program to cure a hangover. Bet he’d love that.”

Spock goes to retort, but pauses. “How do you know the biological effects of chocolate on Vulcans?”

Jim looks down, picking at his fingernails. His voice is carefully casual, but a light shade of pink tints his ears. “Oh, I had McCoy brief me on a few facts on Vulcan anatomy. You know, just in case any of my officers got in trouble.”

“But I am the only Vulcan officer aboard the Enterprise.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, understanding dawns. _Oh_. For a moment, the barb of jealousy loosens.

The human clears his throat. “ _Anyway_ , Uhura mentioned you wanted to talk to me about something. She said you would be here.”

“Oh did she.” It is not surprising to know that Nyota was already meddling. Spock considers confessing his true feelings to Jim just to get her off of the subject. But the chocolate’s effects make his stomach do an anxious flip. He takes a longer drink to smother the feeling.

It doesn’t help, especially with the way Jim’s eyeing him. “Are you okay?”

“I am perfectly adequate, Captain.”

“Interesting, because I’m only seen you drink literally one other time, and you usually don’t like to do paperwork away from the desk in your room, so unless something is bothering you, this is very unusual behavior for my very studious First Officer.”

Spock loathes the way his heart thumps particularly hard when being called Jim’s anything. He loathes the level of intimacy of their friendship for Jim to pick up something was wrong. And more than anything, he loathes the way the blonde’s hair curls perfectly across his forehead. “As I said, I am perfectly—”

“Does it have something to do with D’Ray?” Spock’s face must have betrayed something, because Jim’s eyes widen in understanding. “What happened? Did she say something to upset you?”

“She hardly needed to say anything with the level of pheromones she was leaking.”

Jim’s cheeks flush. “Yeah, some of that got pretty intense. I know Vulcans are immune, but I’m still sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

“It is no bother. You cannot help your natural biological weaknesses.”

The human’s eyebrows draw down. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“D’Ray’s natural biology affecting you was not a fault of your own. I find myself surprised you are not with her now.”

Jim’s frown deepens, expanding into a perplexed look. “I—why would I be? I completed the mission.”

Spock shoots him a Look—the one that he has used on multiple occasions before, the one he only pulls out when his emotional Captain falls deeply in love with a woman or man who on a mission, and mopes about it for the next week.

It was the only expression that he, regretfully, shares with Doctor McCoy.

For his credit, Jim seems to recognize the look. “Oh, what? No, I don’t actually have feelings or anything for D’Ray. I was just being polite.”

“You show your manners to a good number of female ambassadors.”

“Yeah, okay, I _used_ to be like that.” The blonde looks bashful, running his fingers through his hair. Spock wishes he could do the same. “But things changed. And anyway, you’re totally deflecting! Seriously, did she say something to you that pissed you off? You can tell me, I won’t write it in a report or anything.”

The fact that his Captain holds his emotional wellbeing so highly makes Spock’s heart twist. He can’t reveal the real reason he’s upset, but the imploring look on Jim’s face nearly makes him admit to it. But he could never.

“My issue is not with D’Ray.” Apparently, his control had slipped more than he thought. Jim’s eyes go wide.

“Wait, you’re mad at me? Why?”

Spock shakes his head and wills his rapidly beating heart into submission. “Vulcans do not feel anger.”

“That’s absolute bullshit. You literally almost killed me on the bridge two days after we met.”

“That was an unfortunate slip which only happened because you pushed me.”

Jim leans back in the booth, his jaw clenched. Spock knew there was nothing his Captain hated more than slamming into the wall of his Vulcan control. 

The human’s face contorts for a moment, an array of emotions flashing across his eyes so fast it makes Spock feel dizzy. “You know what, I bet you’re just jealous that because I spend to much time with D’Ray, I didn’t have time to approve your calculations for that ion experiment you’ve been working on!”

“An incorrect assumption, as Vulcans do not feel jealousy.” The hot barb in his chest speaks to the contrary, practically stabbing into his lungs so he could barely breathe.

“Then why are you so keen letting a stranger chat you up after I was fliting with a different woman all day?”

“So you admit you _were_ flirting.”

“Oh my _God_.” The human drops his head to the table with a loud _thunk_. “ _Why_ did I pick such a hardass to be my First?”

“Because—”

“I don’t need an explanation.” Jim sits up and blows out a breath between his lips. He busies himself with tracing the outline of a stain on the table with his fingertip to avoid eye contact. “Look, I know how earlier must have looked. I’m sorry if you think I’m setting the wrong example for the ship by being a little _nicer_ to someone who clearly wants to get in my pants. I never thought of D’Ray like that—and I don’t want to compromise a mission, so I didn’t want her to think she couldn’t trust me. But nothing was going to happen. I’m not exactly on the market, anyway.”

Spock swallowed as his stomach twists. Here was the confirmation he had been waiting for. The hypothesis he had formulated had finally been proven correct. He was a fool—he should not have been surprised. “Your crush.”

Jim looks up, startled. “What?”

“During our conversation on Varos II discussing mistletoe traditions, the capillaries in your face increased blood flow multiple times. This is a common response from the nervous system when anxious or embarrassed.” _Almost like now_ , a voice in his head thinks to add, noting the way Jim’s ears were turning red. “I assume this is because upon learning there was mistletoe on the planet, you did not want the person you are romantically interested in to be pressured into a physical response if they walked outside unprepared. Thus, you went inside to make sure they did not step into the garden if you were not ready to engage in a relationship.”

Jim gaps at him in silence, but doesn’t protest his conclusion. Spock feels his heart finally slow, and then sink through the floor.

“I do have a request,” he continues, glancing down into his mug and considering downing the rest of it in one gulp.

“Y-yeah?”

“You must fill out the proper Starfleet paperwork before making your relationship socially official.” Spock glances up to see Jim staring at him again, this time with an odd expression. It’s one that he doesn’t recognize, and it makes his stomach flip. “Relationships between senior staff members must be disclosed to Starfleet command via form—”

“One-eight-six-twenty, yeah I know.” The odd expression is still in Jim’s eyes. Spock wishes the blue wasn’t so captivating. The blonde sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Well, if I start dating someone you’ll be the first person to know. Scouts honor.”

Jim’s only being courteous, he knows, to inform his First Officer and friend of the chance in his relationship. Still, it sends a sticky feeling squirming inside of his gut before he can smother it with another drink.

Spock forces himself to keep his eyes on the forgotten PADD in front of him. The drink has already taken a toll on his shields. He doesn’t know what emotion would betray him if Jim looked into his eyes.

The human clears his throat and stands. “We should get you back to the ship.”

///

Spock can't remember why he doesn’t get drunk more often. It gives him a perfect excuse to be closer to Jim. The human has his arm wrapped around his waist, and managed to sling Spock’s arm around his shoulders to help balance. Spock can feel where one of Jim’s fingers is touching his flesh where his tunic has ridden up. He is certain it’s an accident, but just a sliver of skin is enough for telepathic waves to course steadily through his mind. Jim’s mind was bright and warm, intoxicating in a way that Spock never wants to sober up from. It makes the room spin in the most delicious way.

“…and I totally threw up on her shoes,” Jim was saying, his voice a steady tremor in Spock’s ear. “It was the worst—and Sam _still_ won’t let it go. Like, geeze, if I knew it was going to ruin your wedding than I wouldn’t have said anything.”

Spock doesn’t remember what Jim was talking about, too lost in the sensation of the gentle puff of breath sending shivers down his spine.

All too soon, they stop in front of Spock’s door. Moving on instinct, Spock’s hand comes up to type in the code to the door, but the numbers blur in front of his vision. The computer beeps when he gets it wrong, causing a little noise of annoyance to slip past his lips.

“Jim,” he whines, as if any problem with the ship can be easily fixed upon the Captain’s command.

Jim laughs softly, the noise causing Spock’s stomach to flutter. “Hang on, I got it.” He shifts forward to punch in the numbers, pressing them even closer. It’s difficult to suppress the childish giddiness that spreads through him.

Ah. Now he remembers why intoxication is normally forbidden for Vulcans. He makes a mental note to never be this close to Jim again.

The doors swoosh open, and then they’re stumbling into the room. In the semi-darkness, Jim trips on his meditation mat, sending Spock stumbling on unsteady feet forward until he catches himself on the bed, half sprawled on the floor. His legs feel entirely too heavy as he tells his body to right itself. He might be intoxicated, but that didn’t mean he had to lose all of his dignity.

“Sorry!” The human steps over as Spock finally settles into a seated position on the edge of his bed. “Are you okay?”

Perhaps it was the way the dim light illuminates his hair, or perhaps it was the lingering feeling of Jim’s projected emotions, but the warmth Spock pushed down before rises up in him.

“I want to crush you.”

Confusion flits over Jim’s face before he snorts. “We can spar tomorrow when you’re sober. For now, you should get some rest.” He carefully makes his way to their connected bathroom, carefully avoiding any other potential tripping hazards. “I’ll make sure to get nurse Chapel to leave a hypo for you in the morning.”

Spock wants to correct himself. He opens his mouth to say—what, exactly? That Jim was steadily becoming the light in his life that he could not live without? That, as a Vulcan, Spock knew it would be unwise to engage in a relationship with a being that was outside of his culture, but he wanted to do so regardless? That he had felt how deep their bond went when his future self-relayed stories of his past in another universe?

Spock knows he cannot speak of any of this. It wasn’t his place. And Jim didn’t feel the same—that had been factually proven tonight. So, in his better interest, he forces his jaw closed.

Jim throws a little smile over his shoulder. “Goodnight!” The door to his room slides open, and he disappears through it, leaving Spock both figuratively and literally, alone.


End file.
